


Forgive Me My Weakness, But I Don't Know Why

by Biromantic_Nerd



Series: Biro's Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Don't Post To Another Site, Don't copy to another site, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, No Romance, One Shot, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29748120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biromantic_Nerd/pseuds/Biromantic_Nerd
Summary: But there's just something so nice about being submerged in warmth that he can't bring himself to change it. It's just so nice to be warm - and it's not like the warmth of a hoodie or a thick pair of winter jeans. It's better. Softer. Warmer.It doesn't just warm him up on the outside; there is something inside of him that thaws. And every day he doesn't realize there's something frozen there that needstobe thawed until it does.(Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt 1: "Touch Starved" + "Dick Grayson")
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone
Series: Biro's Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186613
Comments: 19
Kudos: 115





	Forgive Me My Weakness, But I Don't Know Why

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustorange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustorange/gifts).



> title: "Everytime We Touch" by Cascada (which is way too on the nose to be a touch-starved trope fic title but I couldn't get the idea out of my head)
> 
> this took a Huge plot detour? Sorry for all the random science I know nothing about? edit: SORRY I spelled Damian's name with an e? I must have known someone who spelled it this way because I didn't even think twice until I saw it as Damian on a post and went 😮
> 
> Dedicated to: dustorange 💖🧡 who asked for the "Touch Starved" trope with Dick Grayson from my Bad Things Bingo Card
> 
> Warning: one brief canon-typical instance of nonconsensual drugging

It starts, maybe, because he's busy. He's _busy_ and he doesn't have time to do the things he used to do. Like visit his friends in person, for one. 

There's a gif that someone uses in the group chat. It's of him - of him back when he was Robin actually. In the gif he stands with text overlay labeled "me" holding a kitten with text overlay that's labeled "you" and the kitten is hugged to his chest oh so carefully. It's not the first time the chat has used a gif that features him; in fact, Wally frequently makes low quality gifs of him to use as memes even though he's fully capable of creating high quality gifs.

He doesn't know why but he finds himself staring at that gif for almost ten minutes straight. The kitten nuzzles his shoulder and the Robin is forever immortalized with a soft smile that Dick can't specifically remember happening. He's held a lot of kittens, saved a lot of cats. This one hadn't stood out back then. It does now.

"Sorry," he has to type when the group chat starts at-signing him to ping his alerts because he's missed a question he was supposed to answer. "Was afk but I'm back now." 

The group chat is full of people he doesn't really see anymore unless there's a global catastrophe and there's a need for all of them to see each other. Which is fine. That's why they have the chat. Except today, for whatever reason, the distance between them all seems so much greater than it usually does.

Dick isn't one to stay on the chat very long in the first place - far too busy. No one - not even himself - thinks it unusual when today is no different and he leaves the chat fairly quickly. 

He's in a funk. He doesn't know why either or even when it started exactly. But he shakes himself out of it quickly and soon forgets all about it. 

* * *

It's not often that Bruce gets injured. Even now, Bruce gets waylaid in the medical ward of the Batcave because of something unavoidable that happened during a stint as Bruce Wayne - (an unfortunate encounter with the Penguin while dining with the mayor, whom the Penguin ending up kidnapping and whom Dick had to rescue) - not while out as Batman. Still Dick goes to visit him. He half expects Bruce to be long gone but does indeed find him still in the medical ward of the Batcave by the time he arrives.

Someone's gone overzealous about bandaging him up; probably because otherwise he'd just rip them off. With layers of bandages that thick, even Bruce will have trouble displacing them.

He's fine, technically - or at least so he says and at least Alfred thinks so or else he'd still be here monitoring him - but he _looks_ injured enough that Dick isn't quite sure where is safe to touch him without causing him further pain. So he doesn't touch him at all and keeps his hands in his pockets. 

That very same evening, Alfred declares Bruce free to resume all daily activities - and all nightly activities upon the morrow. Bruce grumbles but accepts the prognosis.

Dick gives Alfred a friendly nudge to the shoulder. "Sooner than I expected you to say. Sure you won't change your mind?"

"Don't give him ideas," Bruce cautions though he looks amused. 

With an unimpressed air, Alfred slinkily sidesteps both comments and then steps away from Dick's shoulder and into the kitchen. 

Dick's balance is too good to be thrown off by the sudden departure. But somehow it still _feels_ that it is unbalanced even though it isn't.

* * *

The inside of his apartment means sleep. It means food and rest and then an alarm clock set for way too early in the morning to start it all over again. The manor means _home_ \- and of course the rest and food that comes with it - but his apartment just means plain ol' sleep.

Simple. A little lonely at times but simple. Besides, he's not really there long enough to get lonely. Between his day job and his nights as Nightwing, there really isn't much time that he spends here. Awake? Even less.

Just like every other night, Dick wraps his blanket around him and buries so deep in its heavy warmth that, for a while, he can lose the malaise that's been hanging over him lately. Can find peace and contentment in his man-made cocoon until he drifts off. 

When he showers the next morning, he turns the water on so hot that afterwards his skin is pink for a few minutes. He did that yesterday too and intended to lower the temperature today. But there's just something so nice about being submerged in warmth that he can't bring himself to change it. It's just so nice to be warm - and it's not like the warmth of a hoodie or a thick pair of winter jeans. It's better. Softer. Warmer.

It doesn't just warm him up on the outside; there is something inside of him that thaws. And every day he doesn't realize there's something frozen there that needs _to_ be thawed until it does.

* * *

The Batcave is like museum. A really cool secret museum, but a museum nonetheless.

And like a museum, there's so many things that aren't supposed to be touched - the people inside it included. 

Dick lounges against part of the Batcomputer's desk - carefully! don't want to actually push any buttons! - with the illusion of someone who doesn't at all care about his surroundings. It's a careful balance of not actually leaning against it too much but also not looking like he isn't leaning against it because he is.

"Timmy," Dick grins as he lounges. Tim scarcely gives him a look and Dick only gets a minor tilt of the lips for his efforts. 

"Dick," Tim returns. He slides over a prepared manila folder of information; Tim too is a master at touching the Batcomputer's desk but not actually touching something on it when he doesn't intend to. The manila means that there won't be a verbal rundown of the information Dick asked Tim to look into; he finds himself disappointed. It's been a while since they had time for a real chat instead of just comments transmitted through communicators. 

Dick reaches out to ruffle Tim's hair. There is barely a second of contact between palm and hair before Tim swats it away with an annoyed huff. "Knock it off." He actually leans his body away as if Dick would try again and needs to take preventive measure. But it apparently has drawn Tim's attention from the Batcomputer for at least a moment, so Dick doesn't mind the dismissal too much. "I'm not a kid." 

"I know you're not a kid," Dick replies. Honestly is baffled. He hadn't intended to suggest it. The hair ruffle isn't supposed to be about being a kid or not. It is just supposed to be... nice. 

"Do you?" Tim mutters. He continues typing, body still leaning slightly away while still trying to sit upright enough in the chair to type comfortably. The question is clearly rhetorical and not meant for a response. 

There is a weird feeling in Dick but he can't place what it is, so it's fine. "Sure I do," Dick says and stands up. At his retreat Tim begins to relax his tilted posture. "You're not a kid - you're a _teenager_." 

"Very funny." The reply is nonplussed and half-distracted by the screen in front of him. Tim too is a very busy man.

Dick shrugs. The gesture goes unseen by anyone other than the security cameras. When he leaves the Batcave, those too are the only ones that pay his exit any attention. 

* * *

"Knock, knock." Dick grins while standing in the threshold of Damian's open bedroom door and, once he has his brother's attention then he steps inside. "How was school today?" Dick asks. It's routine for them.

The routine started back when Damian was ten and Dick had started asking the question back when Damian first - well first _arrived_. It had been hard on Damian during that time. And while Dick didn't totally understand what he was going through, he did understand what it was like to suddenly be submersed in a different culture while striving to deserve Bruce's attention and affection. And though Dick had gained that from Bruce, it had been different for Damian. Because Dick had been a _planned_ acquirement and a chance for Bruce to save a younger version of himself and redeem his own past in a way he never could for younger Bruce by being there for Dick, an atonement of sorts for not being able to do anything when he himself was just a child but now, scarcely an adult, could do something for an orphan. Yet _Damian_ had been a surprise - and a physical embodiment of the ten years of his life that Bruce had already missed out on and now felt incredibly guilty about. In any case, Damian hadn't had it easy with Bruce. Bruce hadn't been looking for redemption - and even if he had, it wasn't to be gained through Damian. Damian was... just a kid. A lonely, lonely kid with a father he didn't really know yet.

At first Dick had thought of it as his brotherly duty to show an interest in Damian's life and had started simply: asking him about his day. Now? Well, now he just genuinely wants to know how Damian's day was. So it's routine to ask, yes, but it's also more than routine. Dick wants to know and, more than that, he wants Damian to know that he cares enough to ask. That someone will ask him about it and will listen if he ever wants to talk about it. Which Damian has by now opened up more to confiding in Dick, but they don't discuss school. Which is fine with Dick. Him asking about school isn't limited to them discussing school, and clearly Damian has well realized that.

"Fine." The short reply is curt - and yet it makes Dick smile. _"Abyssal"_ is the usual answer; which that would have been a concerning answer to receive from any other child than Damian, who takes to Bruce's flair for the dramatics as if it is a hereditary trait. So it means that something has happened. And if Dick is to take a guess, it must have been something good.

"Oh?" Dick pretends to be only _kinda_ interested even though inside he is deeply curious and _very_ much interested to know what could have caused the change in answer. It's just that Damian is shy. Anything too forward and he backs off faster than a skittish alley cat. The rest of the family doesn't really understand the analogy - they can't see past the claws of a prideful cat yet - but Dick stands by it. And for Damian's first time talking about his day at school? Yeah, Dick feels the need to play it cool and not startle him away.

For a moment Damian glares at his shoes in a way that's supposedly been called intimidating; all Dick can see is an adorable twelve year old who's a bit too much like Bruce to show emotions in the way that society expects little children to. Sure enough, when Damian lifts his glare from his shoes there's a little flush of excitement his face that betrays him to be exactly what Dick knows he secretly is: a kid. His voice now is not at all curt like before. "There was a dog."

Well. Dick's eyebrows raise. "At school?" Damian's excitement falters and cusps on the edge of frustration, as if he's expecting the dog's presence to be scolded. So Dick quickly asks, "What like a - a uh - you know?" He quickly snaps his fingers together as the word alludes him and then snaps decisively in victory when he remembers. "A support animal? Does one of your classmates have a support animal now? How cool!"

The suspicious look fades from Damian now that it's been made clear that Dick is not at all condemning the dog's presence. "Yes - and no."

Well the mysteries just kept coming, didn't they? "Yes _and_ no? Hm. Alright, alright, let me think." He shakes his head. "No, I've got nothing. Why don't you tell me?"

"No guesses at all?" Damian's doubt is almost palpable. And okay so maybe Dick is just excited to see Damian excited - sue him! Guesses wouldn't be _nearly_ as fun as hearing it straight from the source himself. "Very well then. I'll tell you: my classmate brought in his dog for extra credit."

That had not been one of Dick's guesses. Not even close to one of his guesses. "Extra credit? That's allowed? Huh." It makes Dick feel old to think it but still he thinks, _back in my day you couldn't bring in a dog for extra credit_. Times do be changing - and for the better, if one would ask Dick's opinion on it.

Damian rolls his eyes. "My science teacher believes that oral presentations are all worth some extra points. Last week in science class, someone gave a _thrilling_ Powerpoint on the project we _all_ had to do for _history_ class." He pronounces the word history like other people would the word " _phlegm_." Disgusted and revolted. Dick wonders if he's disturbed by history itself - unlikely, seeing as Damian has gone on very lengthy infodumps about topics in history - or if it is because it had been a history presentation during _science_ class. Which Dick can kinda understand that actually, yeah.

"And this week it's dogs?"

" _One_ dog. Singular." Damian corrects promptly. "And at least this time _he_ made it relevant to science."

" _Really?_ " Dick can't hide his amused smile if he tried to.

"The presentation was on how Buddy helps the recovery children in the hospital. It's actually quite interesting, though I was forced to do my own research seeing as my classmate used benign language such as 'cuddles' and 'just makes them feel happy' when it reality it isn't that simple. It's a much more complex process. The physical proximity of dogs are something the kids look forward to - and statistically speaking, reduces stress. Which the lower the stress, the better for you. And being able to pet and hug the dogs reduces stress-induced hormones, such as cortisol, which again is helpful for recovering is those are being lowered. It also raises the amount of serotonin and the oxytocin system and all that of course helps the nervous system - the C-tactile afferent stimulation alone is a huge help and - "

"Whoa, whoa." Dick hates to interrupt him but he needs to interject before Damian really gets going and he loses him completely. "So your classmate Buddy - "

"Buddy," Damian corrected sternly, "is the therapy dog. Not my classmate."

"Ah. Right." It occurs to Dick that Damian probably doesn't know the name of his classmate, just his dog. "So he brought in Buddy and... Told you guys about the volunteer work they do in a hospital? That's sweet." Damian doesn't disagree, which could mean that he agrees with Dick's assessment. "So did you get to pet the dog?"

Damian's eyes nearly sparkle. It's adorable. "Yes. She came right over to me! All of the class wanted to pet her and once Buddy had made her rounds through the classroom, she came right by my desk and sat by me! She was waiting to be pet, clearly. And once I pet her some more, she leaned up like she wanted a hug so - " Damian pauses in his vivacious tale, his hands faltering as he realizes that he's been gesturing with them. "So I hugged her of course."

"Aww," Dick says and his smile is soft.

Damian waits and then allows himself to smile. "You want to see her card?"

"Her card!" Dick laughs and steps further into the room. "Wow, like a real business man and everything?"

Damian scoffs. "Don't be absurd." The card is, apparently, already placed on his desk and leaning at an angle tucked against the inside corner of a framed photo of Damian and Bruce that Alfred had taken on the second Purim that Damian had been here at the manor for, as he had abstained from celebrating the first one. The photo is one of Dick's favorites; at the time it was taken, Damian had threatened to destroy every camera in the house. Yet here it is, framed on Damian's desk. Like Dick says: Damian is like a cat and once you get past the claws and gain his trust - well, he's just a kid after all. A really badass talented kid, sure, but a kid all the same.

He passes the card over to Dick, who lets out a low whistle. The card is like a baseball collector card. Except instead of an athlete, there's a very photogenic dog on the front with the name "Buddy" written on the card in cute bubbly font. On the back of the card - almost like a baseball card - the dog's stats and fun facts are listed in a font that's much more legible but still vaguely cute and suiting for children. 

"Very cute," Dick declares honestly, which makes Damian puff up proudly as if Buddy is his dog or something. That's also very cute but Dick keeps that thought to himself. Once Damian has carefully tucked the card back into the corner of the photo frame, Dick strikes.

He ruffles Damian's hair fondly. Damian... allows it. And Dick pauses, fingers submerged in dark hair. He tentatively gives another ruffles and Damian still endures it. Dick removes his hand to instead place it at Damian's forehead.

"Quit it," Damian then snaps and okay _there_ we go. "I don't have a fever! I'm merely educated on the benefits of physical stimuli!"

"I thought that was just petting dogs?" Dick's hand still lingers as he checks for a fever but Damian doesn't seem particularly warm.

" _No_. All physical stimuli - ah, actually, all _pleasant_ physical stimuli, it cannot be _unpleasant_ \- will activate inner hormones and your nervous system will be better off for it. Physical touch increases oxytocin and serotonin and dopamine production. Therefore," He decrees very formally, "I will allow you to touch me."

"I see." The explanation is very cute. So with very formal permission granted, Dick ruffles Damian's hair to the extent of it being obnoxious. Yet Damian waits until he is finished and then, not amused at the state of his hair, attempts to flatten the mess with both palms. His efforts are ineffective and Dick feels rather proud. The sight of Damian's hair makes him smile.

"Here," Dick caves, "Let me." 

He begins to help Damian and smooths out the mess he created in the first place. Damian's hands give one final pat and then fall into his lap as he allows Dick to take over the makeshift brushing. 

"As good as new," Dick assures him happily. As soon as he lifts his hands, a strand springs to life and sticks straight up. 

"Quite," Damian sasses, sounding enough like Alfred that it makes Dick laugh. 

"Sorry," Dick apologizes. And gives the kid's head one last pat for the road.

It's nice.

* * *

It's weird but that night as Dick wraps his heavy blanket around himself, he can't help but thinking about Buddy the therapy dog. He's a little jealous, he decides. It's been forever since he's petted a dog. Maybe tomorrow he'll go to the dog park and see if any of the owners there are willing to let a stranger pet their dog. Or... maybe not. Maybe that's weird.

The next morning, he takes longer in the shower and he contemplates going or not while the warm water beats down on him and surrounds him in steam. He won't go, he decides. It'd be weird. Plus, in the light of day, his urge to pet a dog has dampened significantly. It must be just that it'd been nighttime. And he _is_ alone in his apartment.

When he picks his keys out of the bowl by his door and leaves, he leaves behind his apartment _and_ all thoughts of dogs.

* * *

"Knock, knock." Dick steps into Damian's room. "How was school?"

"Abysmal." Ah back into the routine answer then. 

"No dogs today, huh?" Dick asks sympathetically. Dick takes in the way Damian is absorbed with his computer and becomes curious. "What'cha up to, dear D?" As can be predicted, Damian scowls at the address but doesn't ever vocalize a complaint against it like he would if he actually disliked it.

"Research." Damian says shortly. And then he glances over from the corner of his eye - as if to ascertain whether or not he truly has Dick's attention before continuing. "At first about the relation between therapy dogs and oxytocin, but I've gotten waylaid by a fascinating article that correlates that oxytocin is also responsible for why bad memories are so memorable after the passage of time."

He considers that for a moment. "Oxytocin is the one that therapy dogs... help induce right?"

"As well as does pregnancy," is Damian's somewhat incomprehensible answer.

"Run that by me one more time?"

Damian turns away from his computer and faces Dick head on. "The hormone oxytocin is prevalent in pregnancies and causes lactation and contractions of the womb during childbirth."

"Alright, okay, wow." Dick wonders how on Earth researching therapy dogs in hospitals led to this - and if Bruce is going to be upset that apparently Damian knows about the birds and bees at the ripe young age of twelve. Wait, isn't that the age that kids learn about that in school anyways? Dick can't really remember. "So, ah, how does that connect to therapy dogs?"

Damian's impatient frown is familiar. Damian is smart, but he's a kid and a kid who sometimes he forgets that just because _he_ already knows something doesn't mean that it's obvious to other people. "The hormone oxytocin is induced by therapy dogs because it is soothing to the body to touch a dog. Physical stimuli release the hormone. The human body responds by becoming less stressed and giving a general sense of calm and well-being."

"I speculate that the connection to pregnancy is also related to physical touch - between womb and infant - seeing that oxytocin is referred to in layman's terms as the 'love hormone' and is most commonly famous in romantic examples such as hand holding and other useless behavior that isn't _nearly_ as cool as hugging a dog."

"You're really into this whole therapy dog and oxytocin thing." 

With the look of someone sharing a secret, Damian glances at him and announces, "My next foray of research is going to be focused on the difference between serotonin and dopamine production."

"Wow. Sounds very cool." Dick doesn't know much about any of this. It is not at all his subject of expertise. But usually Damian's special interests never are. "So the nervous system and hormones? Is this for business or for pleasure?"

Damian blinks at him. "I don't see how it could be for business." He waits expectantly for Dick to either rebut this or agree. 

"Well..." Dick scratches the base of his neck. Finally he comes up with an example that's potentially possible. "Well maybe it has to do with Joker's laughing gas or the Scarecrow's fear toxin. After all, if you understand the hormones and how and when they're released, you can examine those effects on an infected person. Bruce studies the chemistry aspects of those - I think it'd be neat if you studied the human reaction. Well not studied but... understood?"

His brother nods slowly. "That does make sense. While that isn't my goal, it is something to consider for future studies."

"Great," Dick says with a wide smile. He notices then that Buddy's little doggy baseball-style card is still carefully perched in the inner corner of the photo frame. "Anything else you wanna talk about, kiddo?"

Dick is fairly certain that he's one of the only people who can get away with calling Damian that, who doesn't even roll his eyes at it.

Damian tilts his head. "I assume you aren't leaving now without giving me any physical affection and thus denying my endorphins and stunting my health?"

Dick hesitates. Parses through that and digests its meaning. "You... want me to mess your hair up?"

His brother sighs. "Honestly, is that the _only_ form of physicality that you can imagine? And I thought you were supposed to be the creative one. Very well - if you must."

Obligingly Dick obeys and ruffles Damian's hair. The kid leans into the touch subtly and so Dick rests his hand atop his head even after he's done ruffling. And then, because he _is_ the creative one, he folds himself over Damian and his desk chair in the world's most awkwardly shaped hug that actually connects mostly with the leather chair.

"Do it properly or I won't receive serotonin," Damian criticizes. Which sounds to Dick like he's asking for a hug.

What kind of brother would he be to refuse? Dick sidesteps around the chair and envelops Damian into his arms.

"Twenty seconds," Damian instructs and then wraps his arms tentatively around Dick's shoulders, his actions not nearly as bold as his tone of voice. See? Alley cat. 

Dick closes his eyes and tries to pour out every ounce of love he has for Damian and channel it into him via this warmth. He wants Damian to get serotonin or oxy-whatever, yeah, but he also wants Damian to get his feelings and know how much his eldest brother cares about him. Sometimes - sometimes Dick worries that Damian doesn't _really_ know. That intellectually he knows it to be true but emotionally hasn't made that connection. Dick wants him to _know_.

Damian is warm and small in his arms. There's a subtle feeling of strain on Dick's back at the awkward pose but nothing that his core can't support for twenty seconds.

"...Have you been counting?" Damian asks, causing Dick to open his eyes.

"I thought you were?" Dick doesn't know how long it's been. It could have been five seconds or five minutes and both would have seemed right to him. It's just so _nice_. Dick hadn't even thought anything besides how _nice_ it is, let alone thought to keep count.

They stare at each other for a moment.

"Twenty seconds," Damian reminds him. "Starting now."

And so Dick counts. The end comes too soon. When he hits zero, he releases Damian and straightens up, feeling the loss of the warm so immediately that he shivers. Damian's hands take a moment to recall back to himself, as if he too feels the hug has ended too quickly.

"There," Dick announces in a chipper voice, "Serotonin!"

"Tch." Damian's scoff sounds vaguely like a laugh. "Oxytocin."

"That too!" Dick agrees happily. And maybe it's contagious because Dick feels good. Better than he has in a long while. That good feeling lasts for as long as it takes him to walk out the bedroom door.

And then - suddenly and heavily - he's hit with an aching loneliness that feels so strongly that he almost turns and walks right back into Damian's room. Except he doesn't have any reason to go back. So he doesn't. 

A slight shiver turns into a heavy shudder that he can't explain. It's not _that_ cold, is it? He feels off. He hopes Damian enjoys his serotonin because Dick doesn't think that his works right.

The feeling will go away, he thinks. Each footstep is heavy, weighed down by this malaise.

"Leaving so soon, Master Dick?" Alfred asks him on his way out.

Dick pauses. Seeing Alfred always cheers him up. "Well," He smiles almost coyly, "I could be persuaded to stay."

Alfred nods. "I had a feeling that might be the case." He turns. "I'll set the kettle on then, shall I?"

Dick follows Alfred to the kitchen. He still feels... well weird. Upset but not at anything in particular. _Lonely_ more than anything. But tea and Alfred are a sure remedy. "Sounds great."

And it is. The warmth he lost seeps back into him through delicate porcelain that he cradles with both hands like it's a cup if coffee; this mostly is to get warm but also to hide any of the shakiness Dick worries is still trembling through him. Alfred shakes his head at him when Dick sticks his face over the rising steam and sighs in contentment as it hits his skin. 

"My boy," Alfred says and lifts his own teacup very delicately. "Do wear a thicker coat next time you go out, won't you? Spring is not yet upon us, you know."

"Will do, Alfred!" Dick promises. He drinks his tea; it warms him from the inside out. Maybe he just needed something warm - or some caffeine - because he's fine now. Earlier had been weird - but he's fine now. 

* * *

When Dick wakes up, he's swaying. He tries to sit up but doesn't at all manage it. He does manage to send a wave of nausea rolling through him though.

"Whoa, easy there," A close modulated voice cautions him. It's then that Dick realizes why he can't sit up; he's already slung over someone's shoulder. The swaying - it's footsteps. Carried, he's being carried. There's an arm wrapped across his waist securing him. 

Dick's tongue feels heavy in his mouth but after a moment he gets it to cooperate. "What happened?"

"Welcome back to the land of the living." The wry amusement in that familiar voice finally connects now that Dick's starting to gain coherence.

Red Hood. Okay so Jason was carrying him? Something definitely had happened then.

"Did they know we were coming?" Dick asks and tries to recall the night. Stakeout, docks, then - nothing. His head hurts and the world is swimming far too much to make sense of it. It's not just being carried that makes the world spin, he's sure of it. _Concussion?_ he guesses but doesn't really feel any head wounds. Just a general pain all over, nothing specific he can pinpoint to try and figure out what happened.

"Who's to say?" Jason answers because he thrives on being difficult.

"In your professional opinion?" Now that was something that would get Jason to respond. Jason's very proud of his professionalism. 

Jason laughs. "Well, _in my professional opinion_ , then yeah. Of course they did, Goldie. Otherwise you would have been walking out of here. Speaking of - you good to walk yet?"

"You saying I'm too heavy for you?" Dick teases because he doesn't want to answer. Because the answer is no. And he doesn't want to admit that. And if he stalls for time, then maybe he won't have to. Maybe the world will stop spinning and he'll be able to think past the only thought running through his aching skull, which was, " _Even through his uniform, Jason's arm wrapped around Dick's back feels warm._ "

"Please," Jason plays along. "I can bench press _two_ of you." Dick laughs. "Hey," Jason warns, "I'm gonna set you down for a sec' okay? The coms are on the fritz and I need both hands to fix it." 

"Yeah, okay."

Jason kneels and lowers Dick to the ground. The moment he steps back and takes his hands away, Dick surprised them both because he bursts into tears.

"What?" Jason asks blankly, as if shocked, and then immediately drops back to kneeling besides him. "Hey, hey, talk to me here. What's wrong?"

And Dick _doesn't know_. He doesn't know up from down right now and the only thing he actually knows - which is supremely unhelpful - is that it had been nice to be held and now he wasn't being held. When the world stops spinning, he thinks he'll be embarrassed; for now he can't muster anything besides the strange feeling of loss.

"Serotonin?" Dick says because for some reason all he can think about right now are therapy dogs and whatever hormone hugging them gives you.

"If you weren't tranq'ed I would kick your ass for pulling this," Jason helpfully informs him. His modulated voice sounds worried. 

The com in Dick's mask crackles to life. Similarly, Jason cocks his helmet. "Status?" Tim asks.

"Nightwing's down but unharmed," He informs the com. "And saying something about serotonin? Is he clinically depressed or something?"

"Aren't we all?" Tim asks monotonously but then adds, "Also anxiety and chronic pain can be inhibitors of serotonin. It needn't have to be depression."

"Obviously if he needs serotonin," Damian interjects, "You need to give him pleasant physical affection to raise his oxytocin levels."

"Cease com chatter," Batman says. "Hood, what's Nightwing's status?"

"He's fine," Jason says and Dick watches him because the world spins too much but Jason at least stays still. "Robin, you think physical touch would help or are you bullshitting me?"

"I wouldn't _lie_ about this!"

"Trace our coms because I am _not_ babysitting a tranq'ed Nightwing all night." Jason commands and then his next one is directed to Dick, "C'mere." He seems to realize the error in this at the same time that Dick wonders how such a short distance away is so far. "Alright, fine." Jason sits down completely and heaves Dick up by his arm and throws it over Jason's shoulder. Dizzily Dick sags and lets his weight fall into Jason's side. Jason... lets him. His head spins but it's warm and solid underneath him, and greedily Dick shuffles as close as he can. Jason's bigger than a therapy dog would be, he thinks. But it's just as nice. Maybe a little less cuddly and fuzzy and more red and gunny _but_ \- nice.

"Is it true then?" Jason asks.

The question doesn't make much sense to him "Hmm?"

"The kid thinks you're touch-starved."

Dick frowns. "He didn't say that."

"Oxytocin?" Jason prompts pointedly. "And physical affection? Only an idiot wouldn't be able to put two and two together." Dick doesn't verbalize that he's not sure what Jason's adding up to but it's not quite making four on his end. Jason wraps an arm around Dick's waist. "I don't understand though. You're, like, the most obnoxiously touchy-feely person there is. How'd _you_ end up being touch starved?"

"You said it," Dick grins. "It's obnoxious. No one likes it when I touch them so... I try not to do it so often."

"In case you haven't noticed," Jason corrects, "None of us like to admit we're human beings if we don't have to. So something like that? Of course we wouldn't - _Look_. We don't... _dislike_ your touch. You of all people should know that. Hasn't the big man taught you not to assume things? It's his fault, anyhow, that none of us tell you we enjoy it."

Dick doesn't know if he agrees with that. "Do you?"

The sound of an engine in this distance reaches them; it'll only be a matter of time before someone arrives.

"Do I... what?"

" _Do_ you enjoy it? When I'm touchy-feely?"

"You're not the only who needs serotonin and oxytocin. Try being dead and see how far that gets you in 'pleasant physical affection.' You'd be a little touch-starved too. So yeah, okay? I do enjoy it. Got a problem with that?"

"Nope!" He says cheerfully and clings on tighter to Jason's side even though his armor is bulky.

Jason sighs, and the sound comes out too robotic to sound actually irritated. Or maybe Jason just was never irritated in the first place.

The sound of the approaching engine gets louder; Dick falls asleep before anyone has the time to arrive.

* * *

When Dick wakes up in the medical ward of the Batcave, he is embarrassed - or well he _would_ have been embarrassed. Except.

Except when Dick wakes up in the medical ward of the Batcave, Bruce is holding his hand.

Bruce's hand is large and warm and calloused. It feels like home in a way that Dick's forgotten. Like the smell of Alfred cooking beef wellington every winter that he can't remember the aroma of until it's being cooked. Or like looking up at the sight of the chandelier in the foyer after a long time away from the manor and finally remembering the specific angles that light glints off the crystals, the rainbow sparkles that Dick can imagine how glorious they are but when he sees them in person eclipse his imaginings tenfold. It's a part of home that he's forgotten no matter how many times he's thought he remembered only to realize the real experience is beyond what his memories can produce. Bruce's hand is warm and home and maybe if Dick tries hard enough this time, he can memorize the feeling like the shine of chandelier crystals. 

Bruce follows Dick's gaze to their interlocked hands and then, as if to prove a point, squeezes softly. It's nice.

"Damian's under the impression that you would benefit from pleasant physical affection." Bruce's tone is casual and polite and perfect. So, nervous then.

"And you?" Dick asks.

Bruce lowers his gaze. "I could stand to benefit having more of it in my life."

It's Bruce-speak that he too needs physical touch and that he too likes holding hands. Well then he's going to love this. Dick nods and pulls Bruce's hand closer. Perplexed but trusting, Bruce allows his arm to be tugged. When Dick finally has him in range, he wraps one arm around Bruce in a hug. Immediately Bruce drops their hands in order to fully embrace him.

"You could never be a bother," Bruce promises, knowing exactly how to soothe a fear Dick has never spoken.

"Right back at you, B." He says and grips tighter.

Bruce's laugh is soft and half full of wonder.

The hug lasts far, far longer than twenty seconds - but Dick doesn't bother counting.

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a choppier writing style for this fic because I was more focused on testing out my DC characterizations 
> 
> Check out the series notes for the rest of the tropes on my bingo card! I'm accepting requests/prompts so if you're interested either contact me at biromantic-nerd on tumblr or leave a comment with your prompt


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